e confronted
Mr. Dombey.

"Oh! beg your pardon, sir," said Walter, rushing up to him; "but I'm
happy to say, it's all right, sir. Miss Dombey's found!"

"I told you she would certainly be found," said Mr. Dombey calmly, to
the others in the room. "Let the servants know that no further steps are
necessary. This boy who brings the information is young Gay from the
office. How was my daughter found, sir? I know how she was lost." Here
he looked majestically at Richards. "But how was she found? Who
found her?"

It was quite out of Walter's power to be coherent, but he rendered
himself as explanatory as he could, in his breathless state, and told
why he had come alone.

"You hear this, girl?" said Mr. Dombey sternly, to Susan Nipper. "Take
what is necessary and return immediately with this young man to fetch
Miss Florence home. Gay, you will be rewarded to-morrow."

"Oh! thank you, sir," said Walter. "You are very kind. I'm sure I was
not thinking of any reward sir."

"You are a boy," said Mr. Dombey, almost fiercely; "and what you think
of, or what you affect to think of, is of little consequence. You have
done well, sir. Don't undo it."

Returning to his uncle's with Miss Nipper, Walter found that Florence,
much refreshed by sleep, had dined and come to be on terms of perfect
confidence and ease with old Sol. Miss Nipper caught her in her arms,
and made a very hysterical meeting of it. Then, converting the parlor
into a private tiring-room, she dressed her in proper clothes, and
presently led her forth to say farewell.

"Good-night," said Florence to the elder man, "you have been very good
to me."

Uncle Sol was quite delighted, and kissed her like her grandfather.

"Good-night, Walter," she said, "I'll never forget you, No! Indeed I
never will. Good-by!"

The entrance of the lost child at home made a slight sensation, but not
much. Mr. Dombey kissed her once upon the forehead, and cautioned her
not to wander anywhere again with treacherous attendants. He then
dismissed the culprit Polly Richards, from his service, telling her to
leave immediately, and it was a dagger in the haughty father's heart to
see Florence holding to her dress, and crying to her not to go. Not that
he cared to whom his daughter turned, or from whom turned away. The
swift, sharp agony struck through him as he thought of what his
son might do.

His son cried lustily that night, at all events; and the next day a new
nurse, Wickam by na